


Wish You Were Here

by Shadowstar



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 15:42:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2234448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowstar/pseuds/Shadowstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John makes this trip every Christmas. This time, besides bringing her flowers, he's bringing his mother good news.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wish You Were Here

**Author's Note:**

> Title inspired by Pink Floyd's Wish You Were Here, and set during the hiatus after Reichenbach. Written for SRPB prompt "graveyard".

It never ceases to amaze John just how far he’s come in life, every time he stands here. It’s not that he hasn’t thought about it. It’s more like it never really, _fully_ hits him until now. And never let it be said that John Watson can’t, eventually, take a hint.

This is a yearly trek he makes, out of honor and really, he owes her this much. He knows that towards the end, he hadn’t been there; he’d been at university, hadn’t really been in touch. Had thought that finally being an adult meant not calling home so much. Or going and visiting, either.

He should have been there. He knows that, deep in his heart, and he hates that feeling of failure even after all this time. 

She had been his inspiration, really; his best friend growing up, the one person he knew understood him. That he could talk to, could work out his problems with. She would listen and offer advice with a gentle smile and bright eyes, usually brushing stray hair from his forehead with a gentle hand. And when he’d announced his intentions to go to university, she had supported him. Had encouraged him. Had helped him settle on what he wanted to do.

He thinks, now, that he should have known that something was wrong. She’d always been tired, always looked haggard. Sickly. Not the bright, vibrant woman of his youth. But he hadn’t paid attention, still deeply set in his adolescent brain with the knowledge that this was his chance to make a name for himself. Always about him, he’d been more than a little selfish at the time. Totally focused on what was right in front of his face, and not on those around him.

If it hadn’t been clear years ago that he was feeling guilty for this shortcoming, it was damn obvious now. Though, he had known of it for a long, long time before this. It just seems to be exacerbated every year when he visits her. 

The marker was under a tree; during the summer, it offered shade and a nice place to lean against as he told her stories of his life. In the winter, the tree offered a pretty landscape and a place to hang little trinkets for decoration and protected the stone from the worst of the wind. He visited her as frequently as he could manage, though recently that had been a lot more than he probably would have liked.

There was, after all, another grave to visit now.

But that wasn’t really the point, though, was it. He was meant to be here, with _her_. This was his time with her, and he wasn’t going to spoil it with harsh feelings that he still doesn’t entirely understand. 

He would visit her as much as he could, though it would sometimes be months between those visits. But there were always two days out of the year that he took the time to make sure to stop by, to give flowers or leave a gift behind that would invariably be snagged up by the groundskeeper, and that was perfectly fine with him. Her birthday, in November, and then again at Christmas. 

The sad truth of the matter was that he’d missed her birthday this year; to be fair, though, he’d also been horribly busy trying not to throttle his not-so-new-flatmate for getting sick and then being _utterly_ stubborn about it. About not wanting to properly take care of himself or let himself be taken care of, either.

If he didn’t love the bloody man so much, he really would _throttle_ him.

But now it was Christmas. And now, of course, he had to visit her in the cold and the snow. At least it had been a white Christmas. That was something that he was glad for. It meant the kids that were visiting had the chance to be able to play about and screech and get properly chilled, only to be warmed again by the fireside and hot chocolate.

The reminder of what’s waiting for him at home has him smiling. 

“Sorry I’m so late, mum. Seems to be rather the story of my life, doesn’t it?” he tells the grave with a chuckle, leaning over and dusting the snow away from the letters spelling out her name, and the dates that were carved into the cold stone. 

The gravestone itself was nothing fancy, not like the black marble gravestone that he often visited, too; just simple grey stone, what she would have wanted. It was made up for by the fact that there were always flowers, here. Seasonal, of course, because she would have thrown several large, heavy objects had she been here and known that there was needless flower killings just to give her roses.

Today, he’d brought her a large bouquet of sweet pea, bells of Ireland, and amaryllis. The last, of course, had been her favorite, and he always tried to make sure she had some on her birthday. At least he’d been able to do that much for her this year; going down to the shop to order the flowers had given him the chance to get away from wanting to kill his partner.

The thought of the man has him smiling, now, though. 

“I have some news, though. News I should have told you about months ago,” he continues on, stuffing his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket. It really is bloody cold out here; he doesn’t think this visit will be long, though he rather wishes it could be.

He misses being able to talk to his mother, to working out his problems with her, using her as a sounding board. 

“I’ve found someone, mum,” he tells her, now, finally letting the words fall out of his mouth. It was freeing, elating, to finally be able to tell her.

And, really, he should have told her months ago. But to be fair, he’d been so terrified that he was going to screw it up and lose what he now has that he hadn’t even had the _notion_ of telling her. He’d told her a lot of the man in question, before. Had practically _gushed_ about him, like some lovesick teenager would about some new star. 

It had taken Mary, of course, to finally point out what had apparently been so obvious to everyone but him. 

He was totally, irrevocably in love with Greg Lestrade and he was completely screwed as a result.

“It isn’t what I think you would have liked, really. Not because I’m with a man,” he has to hastily add, because he knows his mother was anything but homophobic. Far the opposite, actually. 

“But, really, I could lose him. Any time he goes out, I could seriously lose him and I would have no idea what to do, how to handle that. Even worse, I may never be told about it.” 

It was one of his biggest fears. He’d had _nightmares_ about it, even before they were together. They had been each other’s support, shoring each other up. Moving on together as best they could in a world that seemed a little more off kilter, more _wrong_ , somehow, with Sherlock gone. But that was how things had gone. And, at some point in all that, he’d fallen in love with the man, and had absolutely denied it.

At least, to himself.

“You wouldn’t be proud of me, either; ‘s like I regressed several years, back to uni. I was so intent on what was in front of my face, what was going on in my own head, that I refused to see what was really there.” 

At that, he had to chuckle while feeling warmed, now. It’s not so cold when he thinks about warm arms around him, and that rare, bright smile he gets from time to time.

“Never really thought of him, that way. Even when I was worried sick about him, when I was spending nights up with him and listening to him talk about some case or other, when I was making sure he ate and showered and slept properly even in the middle of a case, I never thought that I…” He clears his throat, shifts uncomfortably.

Really, it hadn’t been his finest moment, and he knows it. He can imagine her laughing at him, nudging at him, calling him denser than lead. And, to be fair, he really had been.

“Anyway, in June I started dating Mary. Mary was… She’s amazing, mum. I think you would love her. She’s witty, she’s smart, and she doesn’t let anyone dictate how she lives her life. I think, at some point, I possibly could have loved her. At least, romantically. I’m grateful for her friendship.”

The thought of the night when he’d gone to dinner with Mary, only to be none-too-gently told to get lost and to, in Mary’s words, “go find your man” has him feeling warm and sheepish all at the same time. She had seen it, of course. She had been the first he’d introduced to his then-only-flatmate, someone he introduced as helping him to keep the cost of living in London down. She had, apparently, known it from that point. Been aware of it, and had been biding her time.

And plotting, apparently, on ways to throw them together properly. 

She’d had help, of course. And he still cannot believe that, of all people, Mycroft bloody Holmes would have agreed to such a thing. Even scarier was the fact that they made a pretty good team in setting it up. 

“But Mary saw it, of course. Saw what I refused to admit, and it was a damn good thing, too. Otherwise…” He can’t really think of an otherwise. It had felt inevitable that he would end up where he is, utterly happy and properly driven insane at the same time.

“Well. Dunno, really. I can’t imagine a world that isn’t the way things are, right now. It’s… amazing, mum. _He’s_ amazing, for all that I do want to desperately throttle him on the one hand, and then lock him in the flat and sit on him so he doesn’t put himself at risk on the other.”

Of course, he was probably blowing that bit out of proportion; as a DI, his other half spent most of his time behind the desk, something that the man lamented on frequently and that all he could do was pat Greg on the shoulder and hug him and tell him it was alright, that he looked just fine, thanks.

More than fine, really. Not that _Greg_ believed him. 

“His name’s Greg. He’s completely and utterly fantastic. He’s sweet and he’s kind and he’s so bloody generous, it kills me sometimes. Especially when he spends so much time thinking about others and not himself.”

Case in point, last month when Greg had been sick. Or, perhaps that had been more thinking of himself and being utterly miserable. It’s a wonder either way how strong, capable people could turn into five-year-olds when they’re suddenly feverish and have a snotty nose. Of course, at that time, Greg’s biggest complaint-slash-thought had been to make sure _he_ didn’t get sick.

Which he didn’t, anyway. He just got extremely annoyed.

“I love him, mum.” 

Admitting it aloud outside of telling Greg was still rather new; he wasn’t typically the kind of person who uses great examples of PDA or even otherwise announces it to the world. The only person it mattered that knew was Greg, and that was rather easy to do, considering the thrill he got every time he told Greg.

He really, really wishes that she were here, though. That she could be here to meet Greg’s family, too. Because Greg’s sister and her husband were absolutely _crazy_ and their children were much the same, all four of them. That, above all else, she could see how happy Greg made him, over all. It was the kind of thing that he knows was important to her, especially when he spent so much of his time in secondary completely unhappy. 

A sound behind him has him starting, whipping around, only to blink when he finds Greg coming up, hunched in his coat a bit as he approaches. Trying, it seems, to ward off the chilly wind that's kicked up in the past few minutes. 

“Alright, love?” the older man asks as he approaches. 

He can’t help but huff a laugh as he reaches out and touches the headstone one more time.

“Yeah,” he answers, turning back to Greg with a broad smile, hesitating only a moment to offer his hand. It was just the two of them, out here in this quiet graveyard. 

Of course, Greg took it without hesitating at all, giving him a small smile, brown eyes soft as he gives John’s chilled hand a bit of a squeeze.

“Absolutely perfect,” John has to add, glancing one last time to the gravestone. He sends her a mental note before turning and walking with Greg towards the entrance, their hands still tangled together.

_Happy Christmas, mum._


End file.
